


Experiments

by claire_debonair



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 21:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claire_debonair/pseuds/claire_debonair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes peered at the dish of the now-bubbling, bluish compound, and stirred it with a metal rod he'd found amongst the debris of his workbench.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Experiments

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the sherlockkink meme on lj, for the prompt: Sherlock/Watson - "Sex pollen. C'mon, with all those chemicals he had dabbled with in the movie, one of them's bound to have an interesting side-effect." Un-betaed.

Holmes is so deeply engrossed with a fascinating and potentially deadly new compound, discovered at the home of a man he suspects worked for Moriarty, that he doesn't notice Watson enter the room. He lights a flame underneath a small dish of the compound, hoping he can learn something from the residue left over once it evaporates, and returns to investigating its liquid form. Eventually he registers the presence of someone else in the room, and turns to see Watson reading a newspaper.  
  
"You could have knocked," he says, but becomes distracted by a flash from the dish sitting above the small burner before he can hear the dry reply Watson makes from behind his paper. "Extraordinary," Holmes murmurs. "Watson, come and look at this."  
  
"Do I have to?"  
  
"No, but it may have been the cause of death of that poor man we had the misfortune of finding this morning, and I rather thought that you might like to supplement your medical knowledge with-- ah, good." Holmes moved aside as Watson flung down his paper with a mildly irritated sigh and joined him at the table, looking at the dish with a disgruntled expression.  
  
"It's a dish of blue water, Holmes. Should I find that interesting?"  
  
"Don't sulk, Watson, your paper will still be there in five minutes. And I assure you, this is far more interesting than the disappearance of that Member of Parliament."  
  
"You know where he is, don't you." Watson sighed heavily, and turned to glare at Holmes. "I wish, sometimes, you would let other people know when you solve things. It would make some people's lives much easier."  
  
Holmes peered at the dish of the now-bubbling, bluish compound, and stirred it with a metal rod he'd found amongst the debris of his workbench. "If you are referring to Inspector Lestrade, he needs the practice. Now, stop changing the subject, and tell me what you observe."  
  
Casting a look upwards, although without any hope of a higher power delivering him from the mercurial man he stood next to, Watson did as he was told, leaning over to glance into the dish. "It's bubbling. And steaming slightly. Not much else, Holmes." Looking up, he saw that Holmes had returned to inspecting the rest of the sample, swirling it around the glass beaker it was contained in. Frowning thoughtfully, he stirred it with the same metal rod he'd used on the compound in the dish, eyes narrowing when his action had no effect on the placid liquid.  
  
"Curious."  
  
"Is it?" Watson's tone clearly implied that it certainly wasn't, and he would rather like to get back to his paper. Then he sneezed, blinking rapidly as some of the steam from the sample over the small flame reached his eyes. Holmes spared him a look, lifting his eyebrows at the sight of the stronger plumes of steam rising from the small dish. "Holmes, I don't think this is steam."  
  
"An excellent deduction, my dear friend," Holmes told him, holding a handkerchief over his mouth and nose as he bent over to closer inspect the diminishing sample. He waved a hand through the gas above it, head tilted questioningly. "The compound is reducing into crystals, but at the same time letting off a gas, most likely as a reaction to being heated. Or," he added, spinning around as he searched for something, "because of the combination of heat and the addition of a catalyst, such as this metal rod I used." Turning back, he saw that Watson's face had gone very pale, his hands clamped onto the edge of the work bench as though it were the only thing holding him up. "Watson? Is it your leg?"  
  
"No," the doctor said through gritted teeth. "It's not my leg."  
  
"Then what-" Holmes began, taking a step forward, only to have Watson pull one hand away from the table to hold up in his path.  
  
"Don't." Watson's jaw was set, his mouth a thin line. Holmes noted, rather vaguely, that his hand was trembling slightly. "Stay there."  
  
Holmes scoffed. "I am hardly likely to breathe in any of this unknown gas, especially faced with you as an example of why doing so would be inadvisable." He brushed Watson's arm aside with his own, stepping close to his friend before Watson could try to stop him a second time. Frowning, this time in worry, he took in the beads of sweat glistening at Watson's brow, the slight tremor in the set of his shoulders, the way he tensed when Holmes moved closer.  
  
Mind working swiftly, Holmes pressed a hand to Watson's forehead, noticing Watson swallow hard and make an abortive movement that would have taken him away from Holmes' hand. His frown deepened, and he dropped his hand. "Your temperature is elevated, and while I may not be the doctor in the room, I have learnt that that is rarely a good sign, especially when an unknown compound is involved."  
  
"It is an adverse reaction, that is all," Watson said, sounding as if each word took a great effort of will to grit out, his breathing laboured. "Please, Holmes, move away."  
  
"I think that was almost an insult to my intelligence," Holmes retorted, "as I am not stupid enough to breathe that stuff in. I _have_ mentioned this, you know. Perhaps the gas has affected your mental capabilities as well." When the comment failed to achieve a sarcastic reply from Watson, Holmes nodded, as if this proved his point. "I will ring for Mrs Hudson, and have her send a message to Lestrade asking him to gather as much of the compound as he can; it needs to be studied in greater detail than I can manage here." He reached for Watson's wrist, noting how once again his friend tensed as he pushed up the man's sleeve to take his heart rate.  
  
Having noted the also elevated speed with which Watson's heart was beating, Holmes released his wrist and turned towards the door, intent on calling for Mrs Hudson. As he turned away he commented, "it may have some affect on the nervous system, perhaps, causing pain..."  
  
A hand on his shoulder made him stop, but when he tried to turn around another hand landed on the opposite shoulder and kept him facing the door. Twisting his neck earned him only a slight glimpse of Watson before a slight shake made him stop. "Watson?"  
  
"I told you not to come near, Holmes." The strain had gone from Watson's voice, and his hands were steady as they rested on Holmes' shoulders. "But you don't listen to me when we're in the middle of a fight, so why should you do it now, I suppose."  
  
"To be perfectly fair, I'm usually too busy attempting to avoid being punched during a fight to listen to what you try to convey, so-" Holmes froze as one of Watson's hands moved from his shoulder to his neck, his thumb brushing lightly over the hairs at the nape while his palm and fingers curved round it, slipping underneath the collar of his - Watson's, as it happened - shirt. "Watson?" He felt more than heard Watson step nearer, his not-inconsiderable senses registering the increase in warmth along his back, and the slight rustle of cloth as Watson moved.  
  
The hand on his neck didn't move, although Watson's thumb began to move in slight circles against his skin. Holmes didn't move as he felt Watson lean in close, until his mouth was next to Holmes' ear. "You should have listened, Holmes." The gust of warm breath against his skin made Holmes shiver, because this was -- this wasn't allowed. It was forbidden, like mentioning Mary Morstan, or Irene, or precisely why he had Watson's pocketbook locked up in his desk drawer. Holmes was coming up with a highly persuasive (and accurate) explanation of why Watson should sit down, have a drink of brandy and let Holmes open a window when a sharp nip at his ear scattered the words from his mind.  
  
"It doesn't cause pain," Watson told him, voice matter of fact, as if he were identifying wounds or asking Mrs Hudson if there was any post for him that day. It was utterly at odds with the way his hands were moving; one slipping from Holmes' shoulder to rest against his hip, startlingly hot through the thin fabric of his stolen shirt and waistcoat, and the other moving forward just enough that Watson's fingers could touch Holmes' jaw.  
  
"Watson, I do believe that-" Holmes gulped down the rest of his words as the hand on his hip tightened, to the point where he knew a fraction more pressure would cause bruises in the shape of Watson's fingertips. He didn't want that, not in the slightest, but Homes was bad at lying to himself. He'd hired a gypsy woman to tell Watson his marriage would be a mistake, for goodness sakes, and he'd always wanted what was worst for him. Watson knew it too, or guessed, because he increased the pressure just that little bit needed, and Holmes fought down a whimper.  
  
With all but one set of curtains shut, the set next to the chair where Watson had been reading his newspaper, Holmes began to feel slightly claustrophobic in the gloom. He turned his head slightly, searching for a look at Watson's face, but the doctor's body was blocking the lamp he'd used to illuminated his workbench, and all he got was a dim glimpse before Watson used the hand at his jaw to gently push until he was facing forward again.  
  
The same hand moves back to Holmes' shoulder, and he has just enough time to pull in a breath he wasn't aware he needed before Watson replaces his fingertips with his lips, pressing a series of kisses along Holmes' jaw that make all the air in his lungs vanish in a moment. He goes utterly still, not trusting himself to move or speak, for fear of saying something that he- well, he probably won't regret it, but he thinks Watson will, once the surprising effects of the compound wear off.  
  
"You believe a lot of things," Watson tells him conversationally, as if this is just another one of their chats over brandy and pipes, except this time the smoke is an unknown gas that is making Watson press against Holmes' back and nip at the line of his neck. It's almost enough to make him say something, but for once the cat has well and truly got his tongue. The whimper that is pulled from him when Watson bites down doesn't count, of course, simply because no man - indeed, no one, could withstand that and not make _some_ form of noise. "Not all of those things are set in stone, you know."  
  
"Oh?" Holmes doesn't mean to say it, he truly doesn't, but he finds it difficult to care why when Watson makes a pleased noise, Holmes easily feeling the rumble of it in Watson's chest through his own skin and the thin layer of clothing between them. He longs for the bulk of his shabby housecoat, to stop the heat of Watson's body raising his own temperature, but he flung it away earlier in order to work more easily, and now he can't see it in the clutter.  
  
"My gambling, for one thing." Holmes frowns, because that is _not_ what he expected, but Watson begins to soothe the bite mark he made with his tongue, and Holmes forgets to mention it. "I hadn't bet on anything except you for a month before I asked you to lock my pocketbook away. I was removing temptation from my path, but not the kind you assumed I was."  
  
"I don't-- _oh_ \-- follow."  
  
"If I didn't have access to my money, I couldn't very well go to your fights." Watson chuckles against the sensitive skin of Holmes' neck, hot breath making Holmes shudder again. "They look down on that sort of thing, you know, watching but not betting. It was safer: if I couldn't bet, I couldn't watch you."  
  
When he bites down this time, it's with much more force, and Holmes closes his eyes against the lust that floods through him. It makes his knees threaten to give way, and only Watson's hand on his hip keeps him upright. He'd had no idea that Watson was only gambling on him; he hadn't opened the pocketbook to look at the list of bets made and debts gathered, hadn't wanted to betray Watson's trust in him by doing so, but now he thinks that that may have been the point. Watson perhaps wanted him to, believed that his usually insatiable curiosity would lead him to glance through it and find out.  
  
"But-"  
  
"You also believe that you can't have this," Watson continued, and his hand went from Holmes' hip to the front of his trousers - really his own, this time - to press firmly. Holmes barely stifled a whimper, heart pounding so hard he almost lost the feeling of Watson's doing the same. He couldn't contain a second noise when Watson repeated the movement, his mind ignoring everything else apart from what Watson was doing. One of his hands moved to grasp at Watson's upper arm, fingers digging into the firm muscle there. "You know, for such an intelligent man, you are extraordinarily bad at lying."  
  
Holmes pulls in a much-needed gulp of air when Watson's hand moves, and smiles, knowing Watson will feel the movement of his mouth where their cheeks are still almost touching. "Only to you," he manages to say, and then promptly forgets how to breathe again when Watson's nimble fingers begin working at the fastenings of his trousers. He's seen Watson do a thousand things with those hands, ranging from loading a pistol to sewing up a wound to tucking a piece of Mary's hair behind her ear, and he's been fascinated by all of them.  
  
This, though, this goes beyond even his fascination. There are two things in this world that he has admitted to himself that will forever hover on the edge of his comprehension: Moriarty, in all his ruthless ability to be one step ahead all the time, and John Watson. Somewhere in the back of his mind Holmes is cataloguing each movement of Watson's hands, of his mouth, of his entire body, and knows that when he looks back on this he'll be able to determine which action provoked which response from him, but he isn't paying attention to that part of his consciousness as Watson's hand slips beneath the fabric of his trousers to press against his abdomen, then lower.  
  
"Watson... Watson-- _John_ ," tumbles out of his mouth, because he's good at making impulsive decisions, and at least this one has a very low chance of leaving him with any broken bones, and the only bruises he's got are ones he'll trace later, pressing at them with shaking fingertips, unable to help loving what he knows is bad for him. He pushes back against Watson, unable to ask as his head tilts back to lean on a sturdy shoulder. He hears Watson's groan a moment before he's manhandled until he's being pushed against his workbench, glass jars and assorted paraphernalia clattering and clinking as his back hits the wood.  
  
Holmes glances to one side to check that the little burner is safe, and hasn't fallen over, turning back when he hears Watson's low chuckle. The sight in front of him should be sobering, if he weren't a man with a slightly different sense of danger than most. Watson's eyes are almost completely black, his pupils blown wide as he leans in, trapping Holmes between his arms as he grips onto the edge of the table to either side of Holmes' hips. There's a breath more space between them now than there was when they were pressed chest-to-back, but only for a moment.  
  
Holmes is impulsive, and impatient, and has no idea what's good for him, so if he only gets this once, then by God he's going to have it. He half-smiles at the thought of bringing God into this, of all things, before noting the expression on Watson's face as his eyes drop to stare at his mouth. They pause, balanced right on the edge of the cliff, for a brief moment. Holmes can feel Watson's arms trembling where they're pressing against his own, knows that the chemical reaction is still occurring, and then forgets why that should be so important when Watson's mouth meets his.  
  
It's wet, and slick, and the heat coming from Watson's body seems even more than is was previously as he crowds Holmes against the bench even further, hips moving in a way that makes Holmes make a series of noises that he hadn't been aware he _could_ make. His senses shut off beyond the extraordinary motions of Watson's tongue in his mouth, to the point where he is startled into a gasping moan by the sudden feeling of his cock against Watson's, a hand rough with a doctor's calluses clasping them both together and stroking up then down in a maddeningly good rhythm.  
  
 _This_ was what the street women tried to emulate, he knew, the feeling of flesh against flesh, the kisses that were as addictive as they were forbidden and the feeling slow tensing of a body pulled through pleasure to ecstasy. Holmes dug his fingers into the broad sweep of Watson's shoulders and held on, pulling away from Watson's mouth to press his face against the other man's neck, unable to help biting down as Watson's hand tightened around them both and sent Holmes crashing into his release, body shuddering.  
  
He knew that Watson had found his too from the way his body relaxed, the tension that had been there since he'd breathed the gas in fading rapidly. When Holmes pulled back, though, pressing a kiss to the vivid mark he'd made on Watson's neck, he saw that the doctor's pupils were still wide, although his heartbeat seemed to be slowing down to a more normal speed. In a rare occurrence, Holmes didn't have anything to say, inappropriate or otherwise, and as Watson also seemed disinclined to speak, he chose to remain as he was and regain his breath.  
  
After a few long moments Watson blinked lazily, pulling back slightly and taking in Holmes' state. With a roll of his eyes that was far more like the Watson Holmes knew, he reached for one of the cloths that Mrs Hudson provided so that Holmes could clean up the mess his experiments invariably made. "And there I thought you couldn't get any more dishevelled."  
  
"I rather think it was your fault," Holmes replied distractedly, attention caught by the careful movements of Watson's hands as he wiped them both off and refastened their trousers. He was slightly stunned, brain still attempting to catch up on what, exactly, had happened, but he kept getting distracted. Watson threw the cloth in the general direction of some also-soiled ones, before pressing himself against Holmes once again. Holmes vaguely noted that his pupils were almost back to normal, then realised that Watson was not leaning in to kiss him, but leaning over to reach the notebook he had been recording his observations in.  
  
"I would say," Watson commented, still pressed from chest to thigh to Holmes, "that when heated the compound releases a combination of gases that affect the brain, lowering the inhibitions of whoever breathes it in. Wouldn't you agree, Holmes?"  
  
Holmes blinks a couple of times, and shakes his head. Thinking is difficult with so much of Watson still in contact with his own body but he gives it a go. "Yes, I- I, er, concur. What about a mild aphrodisiac?" He adds, because he's getting higher brain functions back, and his curiosity is kicking in again. Watson shrugs, the movement making it feel as if sparks are flying through Holmes' veins. He bites back a groan.  
  
"I'm only a doctor; chemistry is not my speciality. You'll have to do some more experiments with the stuff. Now," he steps back, and Holmes barely manages to catch himself before he sways forward to close the gap again. "I'm going to finish reading my paper. If you want me to look at anything on that workbench again, _do not_ ask. Anything, else, however, and I'll be right here."  
  
Holmes swallows hard as Watson returns to his seat, unfolding his newspaper and perusing it as if he hadn't moved since he'd walked in. Holmes closes his eyesbriefly , then looks down at the neat lines of notes underneath his own in the little book. He finds a pair of thick gloves in the mess and takes the small dish off the flame, then blows the burner out. The compound has almost entirely crystallised, and he stares at it for a good five minutes, pencil in one hand, before he realises that he hasn't been able to comprehend any of its features.  
  
Spinning on his heel, he looks at Watson, eyes immediately dropping to below the newspaper. Watson hadn't bothered to tuck his shirt in again, or do up his waistcoat, and both look invitingly rumpled. His legs arestretched out in front of him, long and lean, and it crashes into Holmes with the force of a particularly hard punch that he's doing it _on purpose_. It's an invitation, and it makes Holmes grin. "Not an aphrodisiac, hmm?"  
  
"You're a bloody bad liar," Watson says, not lowering the paper, "but you're also bloody hard to read. And that _was_ against the law, if I need to remind you."  
  
"It's not the first time I've done something illegal," Holmes reminds him, and moves forward. He carefully takes the newspaper from Watson and sets it on a nearby table before settling himself across Watson's lap, but it's the last concession he makes. Watson's clothes won't get the same treatment - once they get that far, of course.


End file.
